


Love to Watch

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Lingerie, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first glimpse Clint gets of Natasha in a lacy bra and panties hits him like a hot punch to the gut, makes his chest feel tight. The code for this photoshoot mentioned something about modeling, but he wasn’t expecting <em>this</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love to Watch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SugarFey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/gifts).



> Thank you to [ samalander ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/works) for cheerleading and beta.

Clint has always found S.H.I.E.L.D.’s soundstage vaguely unsettling, like someone dropped a little slice of Hollywood right in the middle of the country’s most secret agency. It exists for the purpose of generating covers, with whatever associated media might be necessary for a given job, to sell a given persona. As S.H.I.E.L.D. operations go, it’s really one of the more benign. And yet he can’t shake the vague sense of exploitation he always feels surrounding professional entertainment, a holdover from his days with the circus, maybe. 

Natasha’s latest photoshoot is already in progress by the time he gets there, the place crawling with at least a dozen assistants and crew members, and it’s easy enough to slip backstage unnoticed, though the area is supposed to be authorized personnel only. He finds his way up to a ledge that’s used to adjust the various studio lights suspended from the ceiling. The spot is hidden in shadow today, though, and the view is plenty good enough for him.

The first glimpse he gets of Natasha hits him like a hot punch to the gut, makes his chest feel tight. The code for this shoot mentioned something about modeling, but he’s really only come to show support because he’s missed her, wasn’t expecting _this_. 

He hasn’t seen her in a few weeks, has spent the time crouched in the jungle in Brazil, sweating so profusely he briefly despaired of ever finding anything sexy again. This, though--Natasha always takes his breath away, has from the start, but today she’s in nothing but a gauzy black bra and panties, her pale skin and wild hair positively radiant against the blank white backdrop. Clint just barely manages to choke back an audible groan at the sight alone, biting his lip until he tastes blood. It’s a good thing nobody’s likely to discover him perched up here, he thinks, because suddenly his dick is hard as a rock, a kind of raw desperation he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager in the circus, sneaking peeks at the contortionist in barely-there sequins crossing her ankles behind her head. 

There’s an instant wave of hot and dizzying guilt on the heels of his arousal, and for a moment he forces himself to tear his eyes away. For three years he’s managed not to sleep with Natasha, not to even approach that territory with her, though lately that effort has resulted in a vaguely alarming number of mornings in the shower with a hand around his cock and her name on his lips. 

Movement on the stage below draws his gaze downward again in time to see Natasha choosing props--for this shot, a slender black riding crop and a pair of strappy heels. He tries to tell himself that he should look away again, slip out the back somehow and find a way to get control of himself. But then Natasha looks straight up at him for half a breath, her gaze piercing and direct as ever, though he’s pretty sure there’s no way she can actually see him through the glare of the lights flooding down on her. She grins slowly, the color of her lips like the innermost petals of a rose, and runs two fingers lovingly down the length of the crop before turning back toward the camera. Raising it above her head, she arches her back, the curve of her spine and the swell of her breasts making him swallow hard as his mouth goes dry. 

Clint forgets to breathe as he watches her work, lets the images in front of his eyes blur into fantasy until he’s lost, drowning in need, aching for something that’s _real_ in a way he seldom lets himself contemplate. He pictures her looking down at him, the ends of her hair tickling the skin of his chest. Her lips must taste like cinnamon, he thinks, burning and not quite sweet--Natasha doesn’t _do_ sweet, he’s pretty certain, but suddenly he realizes _that’s_ what he wants from her, in a way he can’t quite quantify. Clint thinks about rolling her over, feeling the length of her body pressed against his as he trails his mouth along the soft fabric of her bra, lifts it up to nip the skin of her breast, to put his mark on her in ways few men have ever lived to remember.

It’s her voice that snaps him back to reality as she says something to the cameraman, the main lights going dark and leaving his vision swimming around the edges as the shoot ends. Clint stays on his perch long after Natasha slips into her sweats and leaves, long after the crew empties out and there’s nothing left but the echo of his ragged breathing against the darkened walls.

* * *

Clint manages to fall asleep on the couch, lulled by the endless droning of an infomercial on his television. The knock is sharp and insistent, sending a wave of adrenaline slicing through him. He sits up with a start, scrubs a hand across his eyes and glances at the clock. Just barely after ten, though it feels much later. He’s spent the remainder of the afternoon in the gym, not shooting--that gives his mind too much room to wander--running the residual adrenaline out of his body, then lifting weights until his muscles were screaming with exhaustion. 

He hasn’t dared go looking for Natasha, doesn’t trust himself to be able to say anything particularly sane or reasonable around her right now. He feels a hollow surge of guilt at that--she’s his partner, his best friend, and he’s been gone for weeks. 

Hauling himself to his feet, he goes to answer the door, only half-surprised to see her face on his security monitor as he disarms the security system. Of course she’d come to find him, even if she had no idea that he was at her shoot, though he’s pretty damn sure she’s all too aware. 

“Hi,” he says, as the door swings open, and there’s something in her eyes, something that makes his pulse speed up just a little.

“Hi,” she parrots, echoing his tone and inflection in a way that feels like a challenge. “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” Clint agrees, stepping back to let her in like this might be any other night, like he hasn’t spent hours fantasizing about things that would probably get him killed.

Natasha says nothing further until she’s all the way inside his living room, dropping her bag beside the couch and shrugging out of her coat. She’s changed out of the sweats she left the soundstage in earlier, is wearing a loose-fitting black dress that hangs to the knee. It’s tied closed with a cloth belt, the whole garment scarcely more than a glorified robe, and he tries again to swallow down the knot of expectant tension that’s uncurling in the pit of his stomach. 

She sizes him up for a moment, clearly waiting for him to speak. “You know,” she says when he doesn’t, “if you wanted a show, you could have just asked.”

Clint blinks at her, trying unsuccessfully to form some semblance of coherent thought. He tries to take himself outside of the situation like he might in the field, to examine the possibilities and find an appropriate response. She could be baiting him because she’s angry that he watched the photoshoot, because she wants to punish him for his intrusion. She could be teasing him, the sort of friendly rivalry they’ve had since the start of their partnership. Or--he isn’t going to let himself contemplate the third possibility, because if he does, his brain might very well shut down entirely. 

“Right,” he says finally, aiming his tone at something approximating humor, though he’s painfully aware of the little hitch in his voice, the sort of tell Natasha would never miss. “Thought about it, but I decided I like being alive.”

She laughs, takes a step closer, and rests her hands on his shoulders, so close he can smell the unfamiliar perfume she’s wearing. Clint sucks in a breath and forces himself to meet her eyes, to keep his own gaze far away from the dangerously plunging neckline of her dress, now tantalizingly close, like she’s practically daring him to give in to fantasy once more. 

“Really?” she asks, her voice low and breathy in a way he’s never quite heard her direct at him, not even as part of a cover. “You thought scoping out my shoot without so much as a _hello_ at the end was the scenario that ended with you being _alive_?” She grins, amused and deadly all at once, and Clint feels something lurch deep in the pit of his belly, a wave of adrenaline like he’s preparing to step onto a high wire, like the next few seconds are a chasm stretching out beneath him. 

“I didn’t, uh--” Clint swallows, acutely aware of her hands on his shoulders, of the way it’s become difficult to think again. “I didn’t mean for you to see me?”

She gives him a look. “Oh, good. That’s _much_ better.”

“Sorry,” he stammers, shame burning hot again even as his mind betrays him, slipping back into images of her hands on his skin, of the way the curve of her breasts would look if he reached down right now and undid the ties on her dress. “I didn’t mean--I didn’t know it was that kind of shoot.”

“Right,” she says dryly. “Which is why you turned and left immediately as soon as you realized. Because the idea of watching was just so terribly inappropriate.”

“Natasha, what are you doing here?” he manages to ask finally, stumbling back a few steps so that her hands fall away from his shoulders. His entire body is wound tight, ready to snap. 

“Pretty sure that’s obvious.” She gives him the barest hint of a smile again, just the corners of her lips curved upward. “I’m here to show you this.” Natasha catches the end of her belt between two long fingers and tugs, shrugging out of the dress in one fluid motion. Underneath she’s wearing nothing but pale purple lace, a different set of bra and panties than she had during the shoot, and suddenly he can’t help the thought that she’s made this selection especially for him. 

“What?” Clint stammers, stepping forward almost involuntarily. There’s a bow--a little fucking _bow_ \--nestled in the hollow between her breasts, and he can’t tear his eyes away from it. “You--why?”

She sighs. “Because I want to fuck you. Now do I need to make it any more obvious, or do you want to shut up and kiss me?”

“I--” He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “The second one.”

He doesn’t move until she arches an eyebrow at him, the subtlest of gestures still enough to be an absolute order, coming from her. Clint closes the distance between them in two quick strides, hesitating for only a breath longer. It isn’t the first time he’s kissed her, but it’s the first that she’s been fully present, fully herself and he _knows_ what that means, knows the weight it holds for her. Natasha makes a little noise against his lips, soft like the lace she’s wearing, and tangles a hand in his hair so she can tug his head down closer, drinking in the kiss until he runs out of breath and breaks away, panting. She leans up and kisses him again before he’s found his equilibrium, and this time he lets himself be swept away by it, hopelessly caught up in her current like he’s been since the day they met. Natasha wraps her arms around his waist, runs her hands down the small of his back until she’s cupping his ass, pulling his body flush against hers, and his dick is achingly hard again, reminding him that he still hasn’t done anything about his need from earlier, from watching her shoot.

“Bedroom?” she prompts, rocking her hips forward wickedly. 

“Fuck, yes,” Clint breathes, finally allowing himself to relax into this fully, to feel a heady wave of joy at the fact that she wants him, she _wants him_ , and it isn’t an illusion, isn’t a trick. She leans in and wraps her thigh around his hip, so he pulls her a little closer, gets both hands under her and lifts, rewarded by her breathy laugh of surprise as he carries her toward the bedroom. 

He hasn’t exactly been planning on company, hasn’t made the bed or cleaned up the overflowing pile of tissues around the trashcan, but he isn’t focused on that right now, isn’t aware of much besides Natasha’s thighs gripping his waist, the arousal in her eyes as she looks at him. 

“Thanks for the ride,” she says, when they get to the edge of the bed. “But this is still my show.” 

She breaks his hold effortlessly, stands straight and turns them so that the backs of his knees bump up against the mattress. There’s barely any of her usual strength in the movement when she plants a hand square in the middle of his chest and shoves, but Clint allows himself to fall back anyway, shifts so that his head is on the pillow and grins as she straddles him. 

“Okay,” he says warmly. “So what’s my next direction, then?”

“Clothes off.” She hooks her fingers in the hem of his t-shirt and tugs it upward, her skin like cold fire against his. 

Clint lifts his arms obediently, sits up a little so that she can pull the shirt free. He cards a hand into her hair after that, though, pulls her back down to him because he can’t stand to not be kissing her. For a moment he’s almost overwhelmed by it all, by what she’s offering, and how much he _wants_ it, wants her. He arches upward as she breaks the kiss this time, runs the pad of his thumb along the lacy edge of her bra the way he’s been picturing all day, taking a moment to stroke the silky little bow appreciatively before pressing his mouth to the spot. Natasha shivers at the brush of his lips and breath, and he’s fascinated by the goosebumps that erupt on her skin, by his ability to do this to her. 

“Like that?” he asks, his breath coming faster as he runs his hands down her sides to her hips, teases a fingertip just inside the edge of her panties to watch her shudder again. He looks up at her for confirmation, though, acutely aware of her comfort, her pleasure, even through his own arousal.

“Yes,” says Natasha, tugging at the ties on his track pants. “But I’d like it better if you’d get rid of these.”

Clint laughs, giving her a smart little salute as he lifts his hips and shoves them off gracelessly. 

“ _God,_ ” she breathes, as he gets his pants off, freeing his cock and causing his breath to catch on the combination of relief and renewed need. Natasha’s eyes rove appreciatively over the length of his body, her gaze more open than he’s seen it in a long time, maybe ever. “You’re gorgeous.”

Clint feels himself flush a little with pride, though the voices of doubt in the back of his mind tell him immediately that it’s just a line, that this isn’t even the first time she’s seen him in nothing but his socks. 

“I mean it,” she presses, when he doesn’t respond, and she runs her tongue along the side of his neck to punctuate her words, lingering against his pulse point, like she might be able to taste his lifeblood there. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

“I’d bet--” says Clint, the words breaking off into a throaty groan as she sucks a bruise onto his skin. “I’d bet I’ve wanted it longer than you.”

“Oh really?” she purrs, her face a mask of skepticism. “When did you decide?” She gets a hand around his dick and twists her wrist twice, experimentally. For a moment he sees stars, can’t do anything but roll his head back against the pillows with a noise of raw need as his entire body arches up into her touch. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he pants, trying to find words again. “I--God, you’ve always been sexy as hell, but--Tokyo. When you hacked into the mainframe, stole that jet for me to fly us out? Goddamn, Natasha.” 

She pauses for a moment, her face a mask of surprise and something else he can’t quite name, something that makes his heart ache just a little.

“What about you?” he asks, his tone softening as he reaches up to touch her cheek. She’s breathing hard too, her eyes lit up with focus and adrenaline the way he’s used to seeing when they spar. “When did you know?”

“The first time you pinned me,” says Natasha, leaning down so that the words brush his ear, then pinching the lobe delicately between her teeth. “And I knew you really could take me anytime you wanted.”

Clint is briefly taken aback as he places the moment in his mind--scarcely two weeks after he brought her in--and realizes that she really _has_ wanted this longer than he has, allows himself to begin considering the implications of that. 

“Yeah?” he asks, grinning slowly. He takes hold of her shoulders, gets a leg up over her hip and rolls them, a move he’d only ever be allowed to pull off if she intended it. She’s laughing when he meets her eyes again, though, her hair wild and her cheeks colored with wanting him. “Like this?”

“Yes,” she says, the word scarcely more than a reedy breath. 

Clint keeps her legs pinned as he brushes the hair off her face, leans down and kisses a sweet path along the side of her neck, her clavicle, down to the soft swell of her breasts. He nuzzles the lace, appreciating the contrast of the fabric against her skin for another moment before slipping a hand under her and unclasping her bra, sliding the straps down her arms to expose more of her skin. Natasha rewards him with a soft moan as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. He lingers there for a few more breaths before moving downward, slipping her panties off as she lifts her hips for him. 

“So,” he teases, ghosting his fingers through the curls at the junction of her thighs, his breath catching a little at the wetness there, allowing himself a moment to think about the fact that it’s for _him_. “Was this what you pictured?” He finds her clit and thumbs it a few times, watching her hips jump as she tries to control herself, hide her reaction in what he recognizes as a stubborn show of power. 

“No,” she grates out, though her voice betrays her a little, edged in raw need. 

“Then what,” he asks, stroking her a little harder before pulling his hand away and watching her squirm, “did you imagine?”

“In my fantasy,” she growls, pinning his arms to his sides and rolling them over again, “I’m the one fucking you.”

“You gonna ride me?” he asks, groping in the bedside drawer for a condom the moment she lets his arms free. He’s fumbling blind, manages to knock two books and a flashlight down with a series of loud clunks, but he doesn’t care. At last he finds what he’s looking for, rips the packet open and presents it to her.

Natasha takes the condom and rolls it down with a dexterity that makes his stomach do a little flip. She doesn’t waste any more time, just lines herself up and sinks down onto him, baring her throat to him as she does. She goes still for a moment, meets his eyes, and there’s something in her gaze that tightens his throat, steals his breath. 

“Fuck me, Natasha,” he gasps, fighting to keep his hips still until she makes the first move, until she gives him some sort of sign. 

She laughs as she rocks her hips back and then forward again, a loose, joyful sound that makes him feel blissfully giddy. Clint lets himself be lost in the slick heat of her body as he drives upward, finds a rhythm that meets her halfway, lost in the knowledge that this is finally, finally happening, that she’s given it to him as a gift instead of the stolen fantasy it’s always been before. When he looks up again, she has her eyes closed and her head thrown back in absolute abandon as she fucks him hard and fast. Clint slips a hand up between them, fumbles clumsily for a moment before he finds her clit again, feels her clench appreciatively around him. He’s wanted this for far too long, is already having trouble maintaining his control, and he strokes her quickly, desperately, matching the movements of her hips. She’s close too, though, he thinks, can feel her orgasm building in the little flutters of her muscles. She cries out as she shakes apart, a breathy, incomprehensible noise that might hold his name at its core, and Clint doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so stunning. He comes a moment later with the image branded against his eyelids, his whole body reeling with the immensity of sensation. 

It takes him a minute to come back to himself, to realize that she’s shifted off of him. He sits up slowly, getting rid of the condom before turning back to her. Natasha’s looking up at him when he does, a sheen of sweat bright on her brow. 

“You--” Clint hooks his index finger through her panties, which have somehow ended up hanging on the bedpost, looking again at the purple fabric. “You planned this.”

“Yes,” says Natasha, looking at him without sitting up, and he’s struck suddenly by the contrast of her hair against the threadbare sheets, by just how good she looks in his space. 

“Why?” he presses, when she doesn’t volunteer anything further. There’s an uncertainty stirring in the pit of his stomach, an unsettling mix of hope and reservation. 

She shrugs again. “I like sex. I like you. Seemed like it would be fun. Why not?”

“Oh.” Clint swallows, trying to decide whether he believes her, and if he does, whether that’s a relief or a disappointment. For a moment he’s overwhelmed by how damn dangerous and _confusing_ this all is, all the reasons he hasn’t let himself cross this line with her before. “Because you know I’m not that great at--the whole relationship thing.” 

She _should_ know; she’s watched his last two disasters unfold firsthand.

“Who says that’s what I want?” asks Natasha, looking vaguely amused again. “Who says I want anything other than what we already have, plus sex?”

“Oh,” he says again. “ _Oh._ So is this--is this something you’d like to happen again?”

“It could,” she says lightly, reaching out to run her fingers along his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “If you want it to.”

Clint shivers, grinning at her slowly. “Next time, could you bring that riding crop along? That--fuck--that _did things_ to me.”

She laughs, snatching the panties back from him and pulling them on. “I think I could, if that’s something you’d like to watch.” Natasha fishes her bra out from between the sheets, the motions of her threading her arms back through it and fastening the clasp a little mesmerizing. 

Clint is sure she’s about to leave when she stands, opens his mouth to say something, to stop her, to draw this out just a little bit longer. 

“What do you think about dinner?” she asks instead, surprising him by falling back into their usual routine when one or both of them has just returned from a job. “Chinese or the diner?”

Clint grins, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Chinese,” he decides. “So you can eat it in that.”

She rolls her eyes and goes in search of the takeout menu.


End file.
